


Goodnight Sweetheart, Goodnight.

by Boji



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Gen, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-18
Updated: 2006-09-18
Packaged: 2017-10-11 15:18:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/113815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boji/pseuds/Boji
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mpreg ficlet inspired by that line of dialogue in S1 Ep1.</p><p>The dark-side of a certain Mpreg joke that's doing the rounds. This ficlet was inspired by a thread over on <a href="http://www.livejournal.com/users/cyberducks/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://www.livejournal.com/users/cyberducks/"></a><strong>cyberducks</strong>' LJ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodnight Sweetheart, Goodnight.

  
Come spring we were in London, chasing down a killer.

I spent one sunny day after another walking, strolling, stalking _it_ through terraced streets strewn with fallen cherry blossom. And there were days when every damn corner I ran round, I'd trip over a mother pushing a bloody baby buggy. I'd gotten good at keeping my eyes off the cute round, chubby cheeked faces, didn't look into bright curious eyes. It was easier, safer to stare at the buggy handles laden down as they were with shiny bags that looked like sweets from a giant's confectionery store.

The first nightmare hit while I was on a break, curled up in the back of the jeep, my coat a makeshift blanket half-covering me.

And in my dreams the pain - it's just as real as it was then. The blinding bite the ice-burn in the base of my spine. And I woke to hear my screams and I was kicking at the jeep door, fumbling and kicking and gulping back the gorge that was rising, fast. I grappled with the door handle, one and again, panic rising as fast as sickness as I struggled with sweaty and suddenly un co-ordinated. The rear door to the jeep gave, I leant my head head over the side, out past the metallic edge of jeep flooring just as willpower failed and vomit rushed forth. It splattered against the kerb.

I'd have given anything to be able to block my hearing, tune out the sound of my own retching.

Despite the soft velor seat cushion that was being clutched in my hand, the nightmare, the nausea, it was all too was familiar. Perspiration dotted my back, damped my shirt sleeves under my armpits. The shirt was fitted, designer. I clung to the sensation of it pulling at me uncomfortably. In the cell I'd ended up in nothing but a torn, t-shirt. The mattress had been thin, hard like stale bread. Nothing like the springy padded seats in the rear of the jeep. And when I'd crawled on all fours, dragged my body to the grating, the floor had been shiny-slippery. Many nights I couldn't get a grip on that surface and ended up crawling in one spot. Crawling in nightmares that had forced their way into reality, in a disgusting gush and twist of stomach muscles.

  
Most nights in that cell, I made it to the grating drain. Least at the start. Later I didn't. But that was when I'd lost control over my bladder too. Puking until you cough up sputum in a charming shade of brown? That's tiring, but somehow it's not as degrading as knowing you'll wake in cold dampness, stinking of ammonia. I lost time, days and nights and weeks when my skin and hair were made of piss and sweat.

Nothing as scary as the knowledge your body's been forced past endurance into failing. And there's nothing you can do, not with fang-leeches sucking on your veins, not with needles sticking out of each vertebrae, while they pump god knows what into your body. Even forced surrender, it's not as horrifying as feeling a heartbeat below your sternum, feeling it and watching it pulse with light.

There -  
They took my name.  
My choice.  
My voice.  
And raped a life into me. A parasite.  
If we hadn't been liberated it would have fed on me until I was wasted, dry, a thing more dead than alive.

And Gwen wonders why I flinch when I look into the face of freshly born life. Why babies make me shudder.

I can't stop the memories.

**Author's Note:**

> [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/mimarie/profile)[](http://www.livejournal.com/users/mimarie/)**mimarie** had a passing word with my muse. This is the result. It took what? Half an hour? An hour. Something of the like. It's a rough draft of a ficlet with the edges knocked off. And it's Jack, though it could probably be anyone with a friend by name of Gwen.


End file.
